by Lana Sky
Mindless, emotionally-charged sex is a unicorn I’m better off not chasing.
“You gave me what I wanted, so thank you very, very much…” I trail off as I finally notice his expression. Dark eyes narrowed, lips pursed in contemplation. I’ve annoyed him again.
“I mean it,” I insist. “It was amazing—”
“Come with me,” he says.
My poor, drunk brain can’t compute a response. All I can think to say is, “Where?”
The grin returns, playfully stern. “To the party, beautiful.”
I smile inwardly at the new nickname. An upgrade from pretty. Then smart, good-girl Tiffany manages to get a stranglehold on lusty-Tiffy just long enough for me to ask, “You want me to meet your family?”
It sounds suspicious. Very suspicious when paired with the fact that I can no longer get a solid read on him. His teasing grin could hide a million ulterior motives.
But when his fingers find a lock of my hair and toy with it, I forget a teensy bit of the paranoia.
“It’s just a party,” he says—though were someone to tell that to my mother about one of her carefully crafted soirees, she just might reach for a kitchen knife with murderous intent. Something in his tone robs all sentimentality from the term, at least in this instance.
“Admittedly, it’s in another city, but I’m willing to fly you there and arrange for your transportation back, all at no expense to you.”
“Could you even get a ticket this late? You’re leaving in…” I glance at a clock hanging on the wall, and a panicked bit of despair leeches into my tone. “Roughly one hour.”
So darn soon. Thus ends Tiffy’s first foray into sexual exploration. And darn was it fun.
“Come with me,” Vadim insists. “It’s a private plane, so no ticket required. We’ll get in by the morning. You can have the day to shop. The party is in the evening, and you can be on a flight back before the night ends. And,” he adds, presumably to present the tempting carrot to my desperate mule. “In exchange, I’ll grant you an exclusive membership to my club. Granted, it’s in Fair Haven, on the East coast, so you will have to find your own way back, should you decide to utilize it.”
I pout and roll off him to contemplate my options. He’s managed to present a multitude of both tempting and grounding proposals in one go, all neatly wrapped with a bow.
A whirlwind day to distract from having to dip my toe in the businessman waters again.
A guaranteed trip back.
A membership to a bona fide sex club.
And, a shopping trip thrown in, presumably all-expenses paid.
But the part I find surprisingly bracing is his casual acknowledgment that we’re done after that. No contact, and should I one day wander into his sex club, it will be on my own dime and time.
Fair enough.
“Will we have sex again?” I wonder. I’m shocked by how much I’m hoping for a yes. A chance to experience him again and give my fellatio skills another go. A chance to see what might lurk beneath his invisible mask.
“No,” he says, dashing my hopes. “I don’t mean to offend you, but I don’t think you’re my type. I hope I didn’t give you the wrong impression.”
I wince. His rejection hurts more than it should, though it certainly explains a lot. His amusement. The invisible wall. The fact that he stopped short of handcuffing me just to keep me off his cock. There certainly is a bit of irony to it, though. I started this night uninterested, only now I can’t get his smirk out of my head. Or those eyes. Or his scent…
Leaving now would be the smart, responsible thing to do.
“What would my shopping budget be?” I ask him instead.
He chuckles. “The sky is the limit.”
Somehow, I keep my eyes from bugging out. Humming in contemplation, I tap my chin, thinking it over. “Tempting, tempting…”
“But you still aren’t sold?” He rolls over and captures my chin, making me face him. Eyes glittering like coals, he takes me in from my hair all the way down to my still curling toes. “What can I do to seal the deal?”
I sigh, suddenly exhausted. The alcohol is finally taking its toll on my brain, dulling my senses and making me sluggish. Finding the strength to answer him at all is a challenge, but one I feel obligated to accept. “Fine. Tell me what about me changed your mind.”
Because he had been interested. I could tell from the way he looked at me in the bar—that quick, fleeting glance when I started to walk away.
“You don’t like redheads? My tits are too small?” I fondle said tits morosely. “I can handle it. Promise.” I lift my pinky in solemn solidarity.
“Don’t take it personally,” he scolds while propping his chin on his fist. The elevated position allows him to stare down on me, unreadable as my eyelids grow heavier by the second. “Personal preference is no insult.”
“I know that.” I’m pouting, but I’m far too gone to care. “Still want to hear it, though.”
“You’re too unpredictable,” he says. “I prefer my trysts to be…uncomplicated.”
“That’s it?” I roll my eyes, and they wind up closing for good. I’m too exhausted to open them again. “Talk about a shitty reason.”
“Oh?”
“Yes,” I snap, suddenly irritated, though the word comes out a slurred mixture between a whine and sigh. “No one likes the predictable. It’s just that some men can’t handle not controlling everything from their lifestyle, to when they come. I’m talking from experience,” I add, in case he decides to challenge me.
But he doesn’t.
Confusion spurs me to muster up just enough strength to crack open one eye to observe him.
And I gasp. He’s angry. Truly, unashamedly angry. Fire crackles through his eyes, gathering in the corners of that supple mouth. I suck in a breath, recoiling.
“I don’t think you’d like how I handle the unpredictable,” he warns. My heart throbs in the face of it, my nerves zapping.
It’s the sexiest, most alarming thing I’ve ever seen.
And it’s the sight that haunts me as I finally pass out.
Chapter Five
I groan, torn between writhing in agony and regretting the life choices that led me to this point. This point being lying on an unfamiliar bed, craving Tylenol with every fiber of my being, and cursing the effects of alcohol to hell and back.
The fact that I don’t know where I am or how I got here can be addressed later.
At the moment, all I can do is peel my eyes open and scan my surroundings for any hint of immediate danger—and, or, a bathroom. Bingo! In a blurred sea of navy blue walls and blinding windows, I spot an open door that looks promising enough.
Somehow, I stagger to my feet, feeling out for whatever I can find to steady my balance. When my bare toes finally leave plush carpeting for what feels like cold tile, I sink to my knees and crawl toward a porcelain basin that has never looked so beautiful before.
From my murky teenage recollections, I remember that the easiest way for me to cure a hangover has been to vomit. Purge whatever is left in my system and then crawl into a steaming hot shower until the life returns to my limbs.
The shower in this bathroom is a huge, imposing rectangle of glass. An LED panel seems to control it but appears to need the wisdom of an electronics engineer to utilize it. Groaning, I press buttons and curse until water gushes in from about ten thousand showerheads. It’s freezing cold, and I scream as the spray hits me.
But it will do.
Time to collect yourself, Tiffy, the stern, good-girl part of me warns, fully resurrected. Try to remember what happened. How big of a mess do you need to salvage this time?
Hmm… Well, I vaguely remember scoping out someone handsome at the bar. Very handsome, the tingle in my belly tells me. But I can’t escape the sense that something was wrong with him. So wrong that he’s no longer an option—not that I was looking for anything long-term anyway.
We went to his room, I think.
A
nd then… We had sex. Which explains why my pussy is throbbing like hell, and my lips feel swollen. We had very good, very impersonal sex. Then we talked for what felt like hours, and I agreed to come with him…somewhere.
Gosh, what was his name? Gorgo? Vlad…Vadim.
And he, apparently, is nowhere to be found. Nice.
“You brought it on yourself, Tiffy,” I scold myself out loud. My teeth are chattering, and once I feel coherent enough to form a more solid thought other than—holy crap what have I done—I fiddle with the panel until the water turns off, and then I crawl out of the stall.
The bathroom itself is enormous. White marble creates a crisp, clean color scheme that makes me feel like something dirty and unwanted that slithered in through the drain. I’m still wearing my beautiful, now ruined “sexual revolution dress,” though I don’t know where the faux fur jacket is, or my shoes for that matter.
Using the wall for balance, I manage to wrap a towel around myself and reenter the room I woke up in.
Make that, the executive suite I woke up in. A massive bed dominates the center of a sleek, modern room composed of navy walls interspersed with floor to ceiling windows that display a skyscraper laden view of a city. A vast, industrial city a world apart from sleepy Main Oaks, California.
Thrown over a leather armchair in the corner of the room is my jacket, with my shoes neatly placed on the floor nearby. The place apparently comes with its own soundtrack as well—a persistent, high-pitched ringing…
Oh. I spot a silver phone on a glass end table near the bed and warily approach it. “H-Hello?” I whisper after bringing the receiver to my ear.
“You’re awake,” a musically accented voice remarks. “Good. You slept in later than expected. You have only three hours to find something to wear. Our budget will remain as discussed.”
“B-Budget?” I frown, rubbing my forehead. “I’m sorry…who is this?”
A low, devious chuckle serves to kick start my memory. Vadim.
“I believe you should avoid mixing your liquor with wine from now on, Ms. Connors,” he says, playing with the syllables in my name. “I’ll be around to pick you up at six. In the meantime, I’ve informed the hotel to allow you unlimited use of a town car and driver. Feel free to shop where you like. And take this—” He reaches into his breast pocket and withdraws a shiny, black credit card. “My only stipulation is that you find something sexy. The more revealing, the better.”
“Sexy?” My breathing hitches as I take the card as though it’s made of glass. Memories are starting to come back to me, one in particular that still smarts. “I thought you said we weren’t going to have sex.”
“We aren’t,” he states matter of factly. “But my brother surrounds himself with a certain type of crowd. I don’t want you to stand out.”
Fair enough. “Where are you?” I wonder, gazing from the window. “Where are we?”
“Fair Haven,” he says as though I asked him what color the sky was. “As for where I am, I had some business to see to. Until tonight. Oh, and if you need to change your dress, I arranged to have an outfit bought for you. It’s in the closet.”
He hangs up, leaving my brain reeling. Frowning, I stumble around the room until I find a sliding wooden door that conceals a walk-in closet. Inside, on a single hanger hangs a lone white sundress. It’s not too shabby, though a bit conservative for my tastes. My new tastes anyway.
I slip it on and wrestle some semblance of humanity into my hair and splash water onto my face. When I reach the hotel lobby, I’m surprised to find an aura that feels more exclusive than the Six. Gold walls and polished black floors convey decadent luxury. A concierge even comes to meet me right at the elevator.
“You must be Ms. Connors,” he says warmly. “William is already bringing the car around. Can I get you anything while you wait? Coffee? Tea? A glass of wine, perhaps?”
Still suffering from my current hangover, I nearly choke. “N-No thanks.”
He ushers me into a private booth as I wait, and when the driver arrives, he professes his intent to wait for me as long as required.
A smile tugs on my mouth for the first time as I enter the back of a sleek silver vehicle.
This might be fun.
Cursing, I attempt to swipe my room key through the reader while juggling an armful of shopping bags. Finally, success! I kick open the door and hop inside, only to scream as my eyes settle over a figure glowering in the center of the sprawling suite.
“I told you six,” Vadim snaps. He’s already dressed in a sleek ebony suit, tailored to perfection. His dark curls conform to his skull, slightly mussed. Capping off the look is a blood-red tie that betrays a hint of the daring nature I’ve come to suspect he regularly suppresses. “We’re going to be late…”
He trails off when he notices the army of bags at my disposal.
“Hear me out,” I plead, holding up my hands in a gesture of surrender. “I couldn’t decide what to wear. And then traffic was hell. And…” I fish through my bags and brandish a luxuriously wrapped package in triumph. “I got your brother a gift. And his wife, if he has one.” I wield a second gift in my opposite hand and smile as sweetly as I physically can.
“He has a fiancée,” Vadim grunts, still surly.
So I resort to plan B and start to shimmy out of my dress. “Don’t hate me until you see the options,” I say in a rush. “Option one—” I snatch a garment from a black bag betraying the name of a designer I used to worship back when I had the lack of brains and excess funds to spend on clothing. A deep shade of navy, the slim-fitting cocktail dress sets off the red in my hair and conforms to my shape. Sexy, but modestly so.
“No,” Vadim says, observing me with a frown. “It is a party, not a church service.”
“Ah.” So maybe life with Jim is harder to shake than I thought? No matter. Skipping to another bag, I dig out my second option.
“No,” he growls before I can even pull it on—a black, moderately more revealing mini dress.
“Okay. Big guns, then. Now when you said sexy, I hope you meant…stripper. Because that is this dress.” I reach for my final option, and his eyes narrow thoughtfully. When it isn’t met with instant rejection, I tug it on, wrenching the tiny frock down over my hips.
It’s a not-safe-for-work-fuck-me dress in Jessica Rabbit scarlet with her flair for the daring. A bold, plunging neckline reveals the globes of both my breasts, and the view extends almost to my navel. The back is equally low cut, but given the quality of the fabric, it’s admittedly more high-class escort than stripper.
“This will do,” Vadim says. He lunges forward and grabs my wrist, dragging me from the room before I can even get my bearings.
“W-Wait—”
“We’re late,” he growls. He must not have been kidding about things being tense between him and his brother. I only manage to slip on my heels and grab the two presents before I find myself tugged into the elevator, dragged from the hotel, and promptly shoved within a scarlet sports car waiting out front.
Vadim takes the wheel, still scowling.
I feel drawn to tap his shoulder once, my frown apologetic. “I’m sorry,” I say as he pulls into traffic. “I’m terrible with time management. Jim—I mean… Some people used to say I’d miss the rapture because I’d just have to go back and grab the perfect tube of lipstick to wear through the holy gates.”
He doesn’t laugh.
I try another tack. “Do you live here in Fair Haven?”
Still no answer.
Sighing, I sit back in my seat and wring my fingers together. “If you’re angry with me, you might as well just yell about it. Otherwise, I’ll talk and talk to fill the silence. I can’t stand it to be honest. I would rather be boiled alive than—”
“So it wasn’t the wine that made you so talkative.” His tone is so cutting, I wince.
“Touché, Mr. Gorgoshev. I… Are you okay?”
He’s shivering, his body vibrating over the seat. His teeth chatt
er, but his eyes are narrowed and focused.
I fumble with the dials on the console until the heat kicks on.
“Maybe I should check for a fever—”
“I’d prefer it if you stopped talking, please,” he says, still devastatingly polite.
I fall silent, stung for reasons I can’t name. For all of his surliness, I hate the fact that I might have disappointed him.
It isn’t long before we pull up before what I assume is the entrance to a private stretch of property along a waterfront, just beyond the city limits. Without a word of warning to me, Vadim strikes the button that lowers the window on his end.
“I was invited,” he says, but his voice is sharper than the low, delicious hum I’m used to. It’s cold, and the contrast has me sitting straighter in my seat. He’s speaking to a man who came seemingly from nowhere, dressed in black to blend in with the shadowed surroundings. An earpiece is attached to his left ear, which he fingers while murmuring something too softly for me to make out. Then he nods us forward.
“You can go.”
A smug, icy expression dominates Vadim’s features, exaggerating the harsher lines of his face and diminishing the softness. I’m tempted to try probing him again—something more than my tardiness has to be bothering him—but then I spy the structure looming before us at the end of a long driveway, and I promptly lose my train of thought.
“Holy crap, it’s beautiful,” I murmur.
The house is far from the gaudy, showy properties I grew up in and among. The architecture alone conveys wealth, but subtly. Warm light emanating from within highlights the stone base with rustic accents of wood and beautiful, arched windows displaying a snippet of the home’s interior where several people mill about a wide, spacious room.
Excitement sneaks in, nibbling away at any lingering doubt. While navigating a surly millionaire—sorry, supposed billionaire—is a new experience, if there’s one thing I know, it’s parties. Juggling the presents in both hands, I watch Vadim exit the car, and I let loose a relieved sigh as he crosses to my end and opens the door for me.
